Page 86 of Cracked Doll

Then the memory shifts, turning jagged and bloody. Seven years ago. I was twelve. I can still hear the screams, still see the way the light left their eyes as he butchered them. After that, the man who taught us to create became a ghost of a human being, drowning himself in a sea of cheap whiskey and gin. He stopped working. He stopped caring. He just rotted in his own filth.

I remember the sheer, blinding terror of those first few years. I had to drop out of school because the bastard spent every penny of my fees on the bottle. I was a child, barely a teenager, forced to take over the shop alone. I spent my nights hunched over the workbench, fingers bleeding and raw, crafting toys just so we wouldn't starve to death. I was the one who kept the lights on. I was the one who tried to cook, burning the fucking pans and searing my own skin because I didn't know how, but I did it. If I’d waited for him to remember to put food in the kitchen, I’d be rotting in the ground next to Cordelia and Rosalind.

I walk slowly toward the shelf, my gaze locking onto a specific porcelain doll. She has black hair and ice-blue eyes, with neat bangs that frame her face. I reach out, my hand trembling, and lift her from the shelf.

This was the first one. The very first toy I made with my sisters when we were eleven. We wanted her to look like us—triplet identical sisters, a perfect set.

Holding her, the grief surges up in a tidal wave, crashing over me. The blue eyes seem to plead with me, reminding me of everything that was stolen. A hot, stinging tear spills over and splashes onto the doll's porcelain cheek. I clutch the doll to my chest, squeezing her tight, and close my eyes.

The dam finally breaks.

A sob rips from my throat, raw and guttural. I can't breathe; it feels like my lungs are filling with lead. I collapse, my legs giving out, and I hit the floor hard. I’m shaking, gasping for air, wailing into the silence of the shop.

Then, suddenly, strong arms wrap around me.

I don't even have to look up to know it's Rhys. He pulls me flush against his chest, his grip possessive and grounding. He sinks to the ground with me, leaning his back against the wooden shelf, cradling me in his lap as I break down. He doesn't tell me to stop; he doesn't tell me I'm fine. He just holds me, his heartbeat a steady, rhythmic thrum against my ear, his hand stroking my hair in a way that feels almost tender, despite the darkness that always clings to him.

As I cry, a cold, hard realization crystallizes in my mind. I don't just fear him. I don't just resent him. I fucking hate my father. I hate him with every fiber of my being. I want him to suffer every second of every day until his heart stops.

Rhys continues to hold me, his presence a shield against the ghosts of my memory. He whispers low, dark things into my ear—promises of retribution, promises that the man who did this will pay in blood. Slowly, the racking sobs subside into jagged breaths.

When I finally pull back, my face puffy and tear-stained, Rhys looks down at the doll in my hands. A small, ghost of a smile touches his lips. "She looks exactly like you, love," he murmurs.

I let out a tiny, wet giggle, looking from the doll to him. "Thank you," I whisper.

He reaches out, his thumb gently wiping the remaining tears from my cheeks before he leans in and kisses me—a deep, lingering kiss that tastes of obsession and protection.

Thump.

The sound comes from upstairs. Sharp. Deliberate.

Rhys is alert in a heartbeat. He snaps upright, pulling me up with him in one fluid motion. His expression shifts instantly from comforting to predatory. He reaches for the gun at his belt, the metallic clack-clack of him cocking the weapon echoing through the quiet shop.

He grips my hand tight, his fingers interlocking with mine, and leads me toward the stairs. Every step feels like a climb toward a gallows. We reach the living room, and for a split second, the veil thins. I can almost see them—my sisters, lying on the floor in pools of deep, crimson blood, their eyes wide and vacant. I gasp, clutching Rhys's hand.

Then, a noise from the attic. A scratching, a soft moan.

Rhys leads the way down the narrow hallway, his gun leveled, his movements silent and lethal. When we push open the attic door, the air turns freezing.

There they are.

Two figures stand in the dim, dusty light. Cordelia and Rosalind. They are wearing the same dresses they died in, but the fabric is sodden, heavy with dark, dried blood that stains the entire lace. Their skin is a sickly, translucent gray, and their eyes are hollow pits of sorrow.

My heart skips a beat, hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I look up at Rhys, my eyes wide, desperate to know if I've finally lost my mind.

Rhys stares at them, his grip on the gun tightening, his brow furrowed in genuine shock. "What the fuck..." he breathes, his voice low and laced with disbelief. He sees them. He actually fucking sees them. But he doesn't lower his gun. He instead keeps it pointed at them.

"Ophelia..."

Their voices aren't sounds; they are echoes inside my skull, overlapping and ethereal. They drift closer, their movements floating and unnatural.

"Ophelia... the secret... the dark place..." they whisper in unison, their gaze shifting toward the furthest, darkest corner of the attic.

They glide toward a massive, old metal chest, its surface covered in decades of dust and sealed tight with heavy, rusted iron locks. They point their pale, blood-stained fingers at the metal, their expressions pleading.

"Find us... set us free..."

And then, as quickly as they appeared, they vanish, dissolving into the shadows like smoke in a breeze.